


The secret is not minding what you don’t understand

by marginalia



Category: Thai Actor RPF, เพราะรักใช่ป่าว | Why R U?: The Series (TV), เพราะรักใช่ป่าว | Why R U?: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23662759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/pseuds/marginalia
Summary: “You’re so gentle with me,” Saint says, arms looped around Zee’s neck, the image of Zee turning his shoes around for him at the temple flashing across his mind. He bites his lip and leans in, soft and dirty all at once. “You don’t have to be. I like that you’re strong.”::Shooting schedule? I don't know her.
Relationships: Zee Pruk Panich/Saint Suppapong Udomkaewkanjana
Comments: 5
Kudos: 146





	The secret is not minding what you don’t understand

Zee was a fan of Saint before they were coworkers, before they were friends, before they were whatever they’re becoming now, and sometimes the Saint in front of him flickers through all those Saints at once.

Saint always sees it happen, wonders what exactly is behind those eyes, wonders which Saint if any Zee really wants. _I could be that Saint for him_ , he thinks, but he can’t, not really. He can only be himself. He’s been working hard on that, on knowing who he is and what he wants, and he can’t figure it out for both of them. He can only wait for Zee.

They’re shooting in Krabi, basically paradise on Earth, and it’s so many layers away from reality that Zee’s feeling even less tethered than usual. They’re pretending to be pretend boys pretending to be boyfriends, and maybe pretending one more round above that. Or maybe a few fewer. He’s starting to lose track.

A part of Zee thinks, well. If this ends. At least I’ll have this to remember him by. And sometimes he thinks _when it ends_. Whatever it is.

Whatever it is, they’ve gotten good at not talking about it. They wrestle about it, they tickle about it, they do the skinship dance that might be fanservice but might be more. It might be a game, it might be a conversation, if only either one knew if the other was playing. If only anyone knew the rules. Saint feels like he should know, having done this dance before, but he doesn’t. All the steps are new with Zee. All the rules are gone.

There aren’t even rules for shooting, not anymore. They’re basically thrown into it with a goal to reach and some light blocking to get them there, and it’s little wonder that Zee says Saint’s name in the moment, when Saint’s giving him that look, half sinful, half like Zee is a gift he never thought he could ask for. Saint pretends he doesn’t hear the call to cut, tugging Zee up to his mouth like he’s afraid someone is going to take him away. 

Saint always kisses like he’s starving and Zee isn’t sure what he thinks about that when he sees those kisses, their kisses, _his kisses_ on the monitor, in previews, soon to be gifs across the whole goddamned internet. Saint didn’t kiss like that before, Zee’s watched it all enough times to know, but he doesn’t know if it has anything to do with him. Sometimes he thinks it must. Sometimes he thinks it can’t possibly. Sometimes he’s still that kid with the light-up sign, and he can’t believe he’s the one who gets Saint’s kisses now.

Tonight it’s the shoot for Fighter and Tutor’s first time, perhaps the worst possible scene to leave only roughly scripted. Go in as yourselves, they said. What could go wrong, they said. They’ve been filming for hours, but there are still moments, like now, when the camera is being reset and everyone is focused elsewhere, when Zee’s laying down with his hand on Saint’s knee and Saint looks down at him with what feels like awe. Zee swallows hard, trying to be here in the moment, and not sad for a time to come when they’ll be apart. 

“Hey Mister Bear,” Saint says, taking his hand. 

“Hey,” Zee says back, his voice a little rough.

Saint looks theatrically to the left and right, then bends down to Zee’s ear and says, “I wish I could kiss you right now.” It’s so incongruous, given all they’ve been doing, that Zee wants to laugh, but at the same time he feels a squeeze around his heart. He thinks he knows what Saint means. He wishes it too.

“I,” he starts, only to be interrupted by the make-up artist, and it’s a little bit of a relief because he doesn’t know where he’s going. He never knows quite where he’s going with Saint. He hopes Saint does.

:: 

Later, back in his room, Zee’s lying on his back, a low hum still wending through his body, his arms folded under his head as he tries to convince himself that he’s going to fall asleep any minute now. His phone buzzes, and of course it’s Saint, no text, just a dark photo of his finger tugging at his lower lip.

_Okay_ , Zee thinks, and shoots and sends a photo himself, tight focus on his hand splayed across the top of his chest, one finger in the hollow of his throat. If he presses a little, there’s no one to know but him. 

He sets the phone down next to the pillow and stares unseeing for a moment, then gets up, grabs his phone and his room key, and pads down the hall to Saint without even waiting for a response. He pauses outside Saint’s room, shifting his weight a little, and when the door opens, he jumps.

“Hey,” Zee says, trying to look cool, and he’d swear anything that Saint just fucking lit up in front of him. 

“Finally,” Saint says. “I thought you’d never get here. I was about to send out a search party. Did they put you in a different hotel or…” and Zee kisses him to shut him up. 

It’s not very effective. 

Saint pulls him into the room, still kissing, and Zee has just enough rational thought left to kick the door closed behind them. He slips his hands under Saint’s tshirt, barely tickles him above his hips, and laughs as Saint jumps like he’s been given a light electrical shock. “I thought so,” he says, and Saint slaps him, but kindly. 

It’s amazing they have anything left given the day they’ve had, but all of that, confusing as it was, was still work, and now it’s all about connection and release. Now Zee isn’t worrying about making it look good for the camera, he’s not worrying about the towel or an accidental hard-on or saying the wrong name. He’s only worrying about making it good for Saint.

“You’re so gentle with me,” Saint says, arms looped around Zee’s neck, the image of Zee turning his shoes around for him at the temple flashing across his mind. He bites his lip and leans in, soft and dirty all at once. “You don’t have to be. I like that you’re strong.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” Zee asks, and without waiting for a response, scoops Saint up and unceremoniously drops him on the bed. They pause for a moment, just looking at each other, and then it’s a race, shucking off tshirts and boxers, and then Zee’s straddling Saint, kissing his mouth, his jaw, the clean line of his throat. He’s caressing Saint’s cheeks - he can’t bite them like he’s thought about, not while they’re still filming - but as his thumb traces Saint’s bottom lip, Saint opens his mouth, takes it on his tongue, and sucks hard.

Zee feels it everywhere. Three minutes ago he had no idea that was a thing and now he wonders why they haven’t done that before, why they haven’t done all of this before. 

He kisses Saint, wide open, tongues and teeth, wet and messy, then grabs him by the shoulders and rolls them over. “Sit up,” he says. “I want to look at you.” Saint flushes a little at that, but sits up and waits. “Can I touch you?” Zee asks and there’s that laugh again, that laugh he’ll never get tired of.

“Why the fuck,” Saint says, bending down and kissing the hollow of Zee’s throat, “do you think I let you in?”

“Fair enough,” Zee says, but he figures that merits some punishment, so he flips Saint onto his back again and pays very close attention to every part of him except his cock, leaking now against the pale skin of his stomach. 

“If you don’t touch my dick soon,” Saint says conversationally. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

Zee looks up, suddenly worried, trying to work his way through the fog of desire to do right by Saint. “We haven’t talked… what do you...”

“We don’t have to,” Saint says, getting up. “I just want to see your face when you… here, hang on.” Zee audibly pouts. “Please,” Saint scoffs, rummaging through his bag, and Zee can hardly stand it, how casually he’s standing there, naked and hard, glowing in the light from the hotel room lamp.

“Here,” Saint says, snuggling back in next to Zee and uncapping the lube. “Let’s just,” and then he doesn’t have air for words anymore as Zee is finally _finally_ touching him. It’s all Saint can do to make sure he lasts, taking the weight of Zee in his own hand, finding a rhythm together, kisses that are little more than panting into each other’s mouths. 

Saint’s eyes fly wide open when he comes, and Zee watches, thinks _there you are_. Saint nips at his collarbone, strokes him again, and then it’s Zee’s turn, crushing them together, hot and sticky and breathless. He hold Saint close, kisses his eyelids, the top of his head. He is so grateful. He isn't afraid.

In the morning, Zee sees only one Saint, the real one, sleep-warm and beautiful, whispering _I’m so glad you found me_. He doesn’t understand it all yet, and maybe he never will, but he has faith they can work towards it together. The feelings are here. The words will come.

Today they’re filming more for the tourist montage. Just be yourselves. Be in love.

_Yeah_ , Zee thinks. _We can do that_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh. The show is not good, but the boys? The boys are very good. Come yell with me about it on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/letterboxed).


End file.
